Merry Christmas, and Get Over It

I have an opinion when it comes to political correctness during the holiday season.
It's become more of a common consideration to say, "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas."
That's dumb.
I understand that not everyone's Christian, but why on earth should that matter.
If I started hearing a lot more people say, "Happy Hanukkah" or "Merry Ramadan," I would think it was great.
I hate to make such an harsh statement, but frankly, if you're belief system doesn't teach you to look past and accept other people's differences, that's not everyone else's problem.
Be happy that other people are being happy. Not only that, but, whether you're Christian or not, be thankful other people are celebrating holidays that promote peace on earth and good will toward men.
Crimony.

King for a Day

I've heard mixed reviews on birthdays lately. One girl adamantly insisted that birthdays are terrible things because they are always accompanied by let-downs.
That's sad.
None of my first 15 birthdays included surprise birthday parties, and I decided I wanted one. So, instead of waiting around, hoping someone would read my mind, I threw my own surprise party. I called everyone and told them to show up at my house ten minutes early for my surprise party. When the day came, I left a half hour before the party and ran some errands. When i came home, I had my own surprise party. Piece of cake, right?
Another way to make your birthday good is to rock at everything you do that day. That's what my Dad did last week on his birthday.
We went on a horse ride that morning and the horse I was riding was being a pill. It's usually a pill, and I have a hard time getting it to settle down. As my impatience collided with the horse's frenzy, I frustratedly told my Dad and sister to go on without me because I didn't want to deal with it. My Dad offered to take the horse, saying he'd deal with it. I shrugged my shoulders and switched horses. My Dad proceeded to kill the horse's stupidity with patience and singing. I was so impressed. I realized the power of patience when I saw it contrasted with my horse training skills and watched it prevail.

Later that day, we played scrabble. I was doing well, keeping in the game. At one point, I put down a word in order to prevent the others from grabbing a triple word box. I failed. I accidentally set Dad up for a 99 point word, which he took advantage of.
After Scrabble, we played pool. He wasted us before we could even get started.
I don't think, after a day like that, he has a negative impression of birthdays.
So, for your next birthday, go show that you rock at life.

I Tripped to Boston

I can't really think of anything I feel like I need to say, so I thought I'd share a couple photos with you from my recent trip to Boston. Here you go:

Do as I'm doing...


"Not sure what's on my face, but I'll still say 'cheese'."


"Whatcha got there, Henry?" (Thoreau)


Walden Pond


A unicorn, a cow and two humans. Love you guys!


Me learning Chinese Checkers

Class Members

Here are some people that can be found in most classes. It's probably not new to you, but hopefully it's truth will produce some humor.


MIA's

FIrst we start with a moment of silence for those who are missing in action. They may be the people who translate to the corpses in group projects (see previous post), but not necessarily. Some of these people are very bright, and have positioned themselves conveniently under the radar, so as to avoid any negative teacher-student interactions. They've decided to avoid those interactions because they've observed the WHBTP's.

WHBTP's

These are the Would Have Been Teacher's Pets. They are such because if they opened their mouths that much with constructive, beneficial input, class would be a celestial learning experience. Unfortunately, most of what comes out is complaints about quizzes and tests, and contrary remarks about ideas and concepts. These are the people who, when they raise their hand, or just start speaking, you feel a little pain in your stomach and you want to say (in as nice a way as possible), "You don't have to say anything this time. It's okay." Some of the people saying those things include the Mutterers.

The Mutterers

The Mutterers are the people who say what everyone else is thinking under their breath, whenever the WHBTP's say something. These people are most enjoyed by those who are sitting very close to them and can hear the comments the Mutterers say under their breath. These are usually the people surfing the Internet on their laptops during class.

The Professionals

The Professionals are the people who seem like they came back to school from the workplace. They generally stay quiet, but you get the sense that it's more because everything being said is old news to them. They kind of make other people in room seem like freshmen.

The Brown Nosers

The Brown Nosers would like to be the professionals, but they're just not. They make lots of comments that go above and beyond the given question, tying in concepts and subjects they've learned elsewhere in the program or class. They also like to refer to their scarce experience in their bid to seem professional. They are very excited about student clubs and are with the "in" crowd of the program. They make the professionals smile.

There may be more, but can't think of anymore right now. This will have to suffice for the present.

Group Member Stereotypes

I realized today that groups for school projects are never dull, and I needed to write a blog about them.
In every group, there are the same people. Okay, some groups might be missing a certain person, but I really think it's possible to classify possible group members into a few categories. Here are some of those categories:

The Corpse

The Corpse is someone whose body is there, but their spirit and brain isn't. I'm sure when their body is united with those elements, they are wonderful people, but when they are in a group, they die sitting up. I realize that some people are more quiet than others, but you can tell if someone is dead by throwing them some bait and seeing if they react to it. For instance, after having almost completed the project, and after everyone else in the group has volunteered to do something, you may throw out a comment like, "Well, you've done this, and you've done this (mentioning everyone in the group but that person). Who wants to take this?" Everyone waits for a minute to see if the person is alive, because everyone realizes that person might not have a pulse. When the corpse fails to stir, you will probably hear from the Overachiever.

The Overachiever

The Overachiever is a good person to have in the group. They make everyone else's load easier by volunteering to do way more than their share. This is perfect for the average student who wants a good grade without spending lots of time. However, the Overachiever should be received with caution. While they may be workhorses, they are also misdirected juggernauts. They should not be allowed to make many decisions or do to much of the thinking. For some reason, the Overachiever is blessed with a unique brain that is very different than everyone else's in the group. They are the ones who either make the meetings last way too long because they get stuck on unimportant details that have no effect on your grade or suggest drastically changing the paper/presentation the day before it's due because they, "don't think we quite covered it." Their motivation is partly driven by competition because if anyone in the group were to find out about what other groups are doing and suggest we change to "be more competitive," it would be them.

The Worthless Voice of Reason

The Worthless Voice of Reason is usually a guy who isn't the most intelligent, but realizes that the Overachiever is talking nonsense, and he, as much or more than everyone else, does not want the project to be anymore work than it needs to be. When he speaks up to counter the Overachiever, his suggestions are hardly ever constructive and his logic is usually lacking, but everyone in the group realizes the frailty of the speech, but don't condemn it since he is a generally amiable guy and, while they want a good grade, they don't want a lot of work either.



The Valid Voice of Reason

This person is the one who ends up standing up to the Overachiever when they start getting out of control. If there is any palpable tension in the group, it is a result of these two--the protagonist Voice of Reason fighting off the evil Overachiever. Everyone else in the group usually watches; silently grateful that they don't have to do the dirty work. The Valid Voice of Reason doesn't want to hurt any feelings, so they try to disagree without being disagreeable, but are not about go off into the Overachiever's mists of darkness.

I won't spend time describing the others because they are usually more observers and contributers who are willing to do what's asked of them and don't say much unless asked. That's a little harder to make interesting.

Stay tuned for the next post about class members.

Dumbing it Down

For what seems like the umpteenth time in my college career (I mostly just wanted to use the word umpteenth, it was really more like 3rd or 4th) I was told this week to dumb down something I wrote for school. Heaven forbid we use words with more than five letters. I should note that this one actually had a little more of a point than some of the other ones. The other ones didn't have much of an argument at all.
The first time, I was told by an economics major (which leaves some question about his english skills) that my paper was too complex. Before I handed it in, I had asked a couple high school english teacher, who I respect as being very knowledgeable, to look over my paper. The made a few edits, but really liked it. Maybe I should have talked about stocks a little more.
The second time was with a writing fellow. I had to write a paper about philosophy (Thomas Aquinas' Summa Theologica to be exact) for a humanities class. I was required to look over it with a writing fellow who told me that it was too wordy and complex. I tried to explain to her that I understood the concept of writing for a specific audience, and that my audience was a man who never used a small word if he knew a big one for it. I also had to explain what it was even about since she didn't really follow any philosophy, and then I tried to explain to her that the people we respect as really good writers (I used Ralph Waldo Emerson as an example) used big words, so if we want good writers, maybe we should use good words. She said, "Yeah, but that's poetry." I had to point out that Emerson wrote many things besides poetry. I gave up trying to convince her, but didn't take her advice.
This time, I wrote a news article about venture capitalism, and was told that I needed to dumb it down. I'll cut her a break and say that there was some clarification I needed to do, but if you want a good newspaper, shouldn't you have good words and sentences? If we're concerned people won't understand something, I say that's a valid concern, but if it's a word like "capital," and they don't know what it is, perhaps we should leave it in, and let them go look it up.

LIfe is the funniest thing in the world: Part 2

As I'm sure you know, BYU's football team recently defeated number three Oklahoma in a very fun game, and made some big noise for the first game of the season. I watched the game away from my apartment but drove back to Provo later that night. I was surprised at how alive Provo was. I had only seen such celebrating after Spain beat France in the world cup tournament in 2008. People were honking their horns, and marching down the middle of the street waving BYU flags. People were staying up late and it was just really alive. There was a large gathering at the stadium, and then about 1000 people greeted the team at the airport at 1:30 in the morning. I understand that it was an exciting victory, and that's great that they were celebrating, but I couldn't understand the boys. The ones I saw marching down University Avenue in large groups with their shirts off waving flags. Why on earth did they have their shirts off? I've thought about it and I can't derive any logical connection between winning/celebrating the football game and marching down the street with your shirt off. We'll just assume they're freshmen and let it slide.
The other thing that happened that demonstrated the humor in life was when I got a text last night at 1 a.m. and thought it was my alarm. I half consciously got in the shower, took a shower and came out. When I came out, my roommate Jordan woke up enough to say, "It's 1:00 a.m." I just stood there for a second, not really knowing how to react. I got back in my pj's and fell back asleep. Just one of those moments where you either laugh or you cry. SInce "you make for yourself one of two realities," I've found it's better to laugh.

Life is the funniest thing in the world

I realized yesterday that the reason I've been lacking on posts was because I've been lacking on things that I have a lot to say about. I figure that in order to write something interesting, you have to have a strong opinion about it. I just haven't had time to have strong opinions about trivial things for my blog. I have, however, had some funny stories, thoughts and experiences brought to me by life, so I thought I'd share a couple of those.

Automatic Hand Dryers. The other day I stopped at a gas station to fill up my car, and I had to go to the bathroom. So, I went and took care of that. I was washing my hands afterwards, and went to get a paper towel out of the paper towel dispenser. I read, like an intelligent person, that it was motion activated; So, I waved my hand in front of it. Nothing happened. I did it again. Again, nothing happened. I started waving both hands around every side of the thing and at every angle/distance in order to illicit a response from the thing, but alas, it was broken. Thankfully it was in a private setting, but what an easy way to make yourself look like a fool-waving your hands around a box that might as well be laughing at you.
Baby Pictures. No, I don't have a baby, but my supervisor does. My supervisor Nathan was telling me about his little girl going in to get pictures taken. She, Isabel (one or two years old), started crying the minute they walked in, and she absolutely would not cooperate. They ended up with two pictures that they could deal with. After 40-60 minutes of stress and crying and tantrums, they started walking out the door. All of a sudden, Isabel stopped crying, perked up and, with a smile waved to the people in the studio and happily said, "Bye!" Nathan's wife said that made her more mad than the whole 40-60 minutes of crying.
My brain. I understand that this could go a number of different ways, but let me explain what I'm talking about. I went boating with some friends and hurt my thumb while tubing. I thought I just jammed it, but thought it could be broken too. I was just going to wait and see. A week later I was sitting in Gandolfo's eating some dinner before filming a show and my thumb got a weird feeling inside it like something was out of place. That was all it took. The blood drained from my head, I blacked out and started sweating a lot. Because I didn't know what else to do, I laid my head on the table and called my Mom. She answered and had a hard time understanding me, but told me to go to the instacare to get it taken care of. When I felt like I could stand up, I went and got it looked at. It wasn't broken. Earlier today, I went to get a filling at the dentist. They gave me a shot to numb it and asked if I wanted to stay down or sit up while it kicked in. I said sit up. Mistake. I knew perfectly well that I was fine, and the shot was over, but I had the same experience as Gandolfos. My body just thinks it is funny. They came after a while and noticed that I was struggling to stay conscious and they laid me back down. Turns out they didn't give me enough stuff, and they had to give me another couple of shots.
Tooth mark on my head. Yesterday some friends from the ward invited me to a makeshift FHE since our ward wasn't having one. It was a great time, but when we were all done and people almost all gone, there were still brownies left. In an effort to get them gone, we agreed to each eat part of the left overs. Kristina, who was cutting them, decided to stuff each portion into its respective mouth. Luckily I had already eaten my portion and didn't have to worry about that. I was wrong. She tried to force more into my mouth and my reaction was to swing my head away. Unfortunately, her head was in the way and my forehead hit her mouth. Now I have a nice tooth wide cut above one eyebrow, and she luckily didn't lose any teeth, although I think it shook her up more than me.
I hope you've enjoyed these episodes from life. I'm sure there'll be more.

Dream Vacation

If you were to find a list of all of the dream vacations in the world, you'd most likely find quite a variety of destinations. Obvious ones might include Hawaii, Europe, Disneyland and the like. Last weekend I was introduced to a new idea in that category. I was introduced to the Misty River Resort. I'll be honest, I had to do a double take when I saw the word resort on the sign at the entrance because I couldn't see anything but weeds as we drove through the gate. I should have realized, though, that they weren't just whistlin' dixie down there when I saw the quality hand-painted sign on the finest grade of plywood around. So, we made our way through a jungle of texas-size weeds until we came to an oasis of lean-to's complimented by a full-service facility that included a store and big bathrooms. When the lights worked and when you could justify flushing the toilet (they were on a septic system) the full-service facility was pretty nice. Well, I forgot about the fact that you couldn't close the door to one of the bathrooms, but hey, a what's a dream vacation without a little entertainment? It turns out that there was a natural lazy river that circled through the campsite and the lean-to's were really high quality.
Alright, I'll take my tongue out of my cheek and quit wasting your time. I just really want to know why they chose the word "resort." It's a campground in the middle of nowhere.

Sometimes, you just can't win...

Last week, I went with my family to Cedar City to enjoy some theatre (I must be sophisticated if I switched up the "er"). It was a splendid experience, and so refreshing to take in some entertainment that was uplifting, witty, intelligent and thought provoking. I don't think any of those four things occur in our regular diet of entertainment on a regular basis. But I'm not here to write about that...
One morning, holding to our Shakespeare Festival tradition, we went to Denny's for breakfast. I've heard the gag about how President Obama went to Denny's and, upon coming out, lowered his goals for the American people, but I don't have a problem with it. I rather enjoy the food, and don't have anything against it or the people who go there... especially since I'm one of them. But again, I digress.
The waitress, who was married (I have to check those things because I have to be ready to point out her ring when my parents jokingly suggest I should get her number) told us of a special where if you get a juice, you get a ticket and you scratch off the little thing, and you're guaranteed to win something. I was down for that because I never win anything, and I thought it would be fun, even though I understood that it would undoubtedly be something small. So, we all got juices, and all got tickets. When we were done with the meal, the waitress brought out our tickets. Gradually everyone scratched theirs off, all winning something like pancake puppies (they look like doughnut holes) or a free drink or something like that. I was one a free cup of coffee... I was the only one in the family to win a free cup of coffee. At least I won something, right? No. That's dumb.

Dependent

I had a rude awakening this week. I found out that I am dependent on a dumb little piece of plastic. My cell phone stopped working yesterday after I got done with my first job. It stayed on to let me know that I had four messages, but it wouldn't function at all, so I had no idea what they were. Anyway, I was thoroughly disappointed in myself. I found stuff to do, but the whole day, I had that impatient feeling in my gut like I wanted to hurry somewhere or get something done, but I couldn't do anything about it. Needless to say, my second job made almost no progress for the day.
I went and got it taken care of that night. The old phone was hopeless so I got a new one. Now I can function again. I just lost some self-respect given the fact that it affected me that much. I would love to always be a person that is patient and can deal with the flow. I usually am, maybe that's why it upset me so much. I really like a quote from Elder Maxwell when he teaches that patience is trusting in the Lord's timing, and pride is essentially the opposite. Oops. Note to Shawn: chillax.

Running Dead

So I had an interesting experience the other day. I went running... but that's not the interesting part. On my run, I ran on a sidewalk that had powerlines above it. That's also not the interesting part. Both times I ran that stretch of road, the birds on the power line were making fun of me (this is the interesting part). Really, they were laughing at me. It wasn't audible, they were mocking me. I wasn't sure the first time I ran that stretch, but there was no mistaking it on the way back. They would be perched on the power line, and then as I ran by, they would, one at a time (not joking), swoop down at me, swoop back up, and then repeat. The reason I became sure on the way back was because they were getting so close that I thought they were going to get me. Not only were they swooping me, but they were following me. There were only two or three of them, and they would swoop progressively the whole way down the power line. I must've looked like a fool on the side of the road because when I realized what was going on, I would sideways, while running, to meet them and throw my hands in the air trying to scare them off. If you're wondering why I know they were making fun of me, here's my theory: They weren't vultures, but they were swooping over me like they were, as if to say, "you look like a dead person." I don't claim to be a good-looking runner, but I don't think I look dead when I run. Sheesh. I'm trying to not be offended, but when someone or something, like a baby or an animal, which shouldn't be able to make fun of you, does, it hurts a little more. I'm trying to convince myself that I was running so fast that they were simply seeing if they could keep up.

The Unknown Soldier

In the cemetery at Arlington, stands a monument. It houses no body, but the souls represented there make it a sacred place. Around the clock, soldiers continually guard it. The ceremonial respect given at this monument makes it hard for any emotion, other than reverence, to dwell there. That tomb is the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
The Unknown Soldier is the man who served so selflessly, that he completely lost his identity along with his life, and gave himself for something bigger. He gave himself for freedom. Grateful, we are, to the many people represented by the crosses, stars of David, and other grave markers in that cemetery. Grateful, we are, to have someone to honor. But, what of the Unknown Solider? Who do we honor for His sake?
Because he lost his name in the cause for which he fought, we have only to turn to God, the one whose cause this is. We can only look to the creator of the cause, and to the giver of that man.
In Luke 9:24, the Lord teaches that, “…whosoever will save his life shall lose it: but whosoever will lose his life for my sake, the same shall save it.”
But, what of his identity? Perhaps they, more than anyone, fulfilled the charge to “take upon them the name of (the) Son” (Moroni 4:3). In their sacrifice, they ensured that no other name could be known, except that of Jesus Christ.
The eternal flame of freedom which the Unknown Soldier kept burning, is that light which “so shine(s) before men, that (we) may see (his) good works, and glorify (our) Father which is in heaven” (Matt 5:16).
Their sacrifice should serve as a reminder to us of the greater fight for freedom in which we are still engaged. We have great reverence and respect for that man who fought for our nation’s freedom, but what of the man who fought for everyone’s freedom. The one who gave his life that we all might live free—won.
On the other side of the world stands another tomb, nestled in a garden, and given even more respect. The One who lay there, is the known Soldier who gives the Unknown Soldier a name. He is the one who gives us all names. May we so sacrifice our names, that people may see us, and having no where else to turn, “glorify (our) Father which is in heaven” (Matt 5:16).

"Yonder Slip of a Boy"

A quote on the "quotes of the day" widgets I have on this blog caught my attention and it got me thinking.
You've probably heard it or read it before.

Emerson said, "All that Shakespeare says of the king, yonder slip of a boy that reads in the corner feels to be true of himself."

In what light do we view ourselves?
Yesterday I was reading the Book of Mormon in Alma 48, where it gives a rather glittery description of Captain Moroni. Yet, as I read, I saw nothing in the description that couldn't be true of the person you passed in public yesterday. Does boy, who helped his sister after she fell off her bike, feel that the description of Captain Moroni is true of himself?
Do you feel it true of yourself?
I've been in a couple church meetings in the last mont in which we were discussing Nephi, Laman and Lemuel. Both times, the comment was made that we are really a lot more like Laman and Lemuel than like Nephi, but we like to compare ourselves more to Nephi because he was such a good example. Is that right? How should we view ourselves? It seems cynical to compare yourself to Laman and Lemuel, but on the other hand, we don't want to have a misleading perception of ourselves if we really aren't like Nephi.
We really are like Nephi.
We should view ourselves like an optimistic CEO would view his company. There is nothing more valuable in business or in spiritual progression than having a correct idea of the state of the business or individual. In business, a CEO ought to have a realistic view of the problems, predicaments and weaknesses of the business; yet, he ought to believe in the business enough to trust that it will overcome those things, and work to make it reach its potential.
Parents sometimes have distorted views of their children. They sometimes find it hard to accept that their children have a problem. That can be a problem. But, almost all parents have glittering, yet realistic, opinions of their children. They know that they are good. They know their potential and often see what they need to do to reach it. That's how it should be. What gives parents that knowledge? Is it that they know them so well? Or, could it be that it is because they too were once that "yonder slip of a boy."

Code Talkers

During World War II, the United States used Navajos and other Native Americans to send and receive secret messages because almost no one else could tell what they were saying. They were called Code Talkers.
Interestingly, the rest of us try to be code talkers, but our codes are often so easy to decipher that we might as well just not talk in code. In his book, "The Brothers Karamazov" Fyoder Dostoyevsky makes the comment, "As a general rule, people...are much more naive and simple-hearted than they suppose. And we ourselves are, too."

The following are some different types and instances of code talking that I have observed which illustrate that, truly, we're not as clever as we think we are. These are not in any particular order.
First, there's the Sarcasm Code. The sarcasm code is when people say something sarcastically only to hide the sincerity of the statement. Prime example: when I say, "I'm huge," I say it sarcastically so as to hide the sincerity and the obvious truth of that statement.
Another form of code is the Vagueness Code. The vagueness code is best illustrated when one person, who is talking to someone of the opposite sex, with whom they might like to go out with, say they have "something" on Friday night, instead of just saying that they have a date. It's interesting to note that people try to use this code in one of two ways. They either truly don't want the other person to know, or else they do want the other person to know, so they purposely talk vaguely in order to spark curiosity, or just to be coy about it. What's the point?
One of my favorite codes is something we'll call, "Changing the Frame." Changing the frame is when you try to say something, but you frame it in a way that attempts to hide the underlying meaning or motive. Example: I had one friend who was interested in a girl, and another friend who was interested in another girl. The two girls were friends. One friend came up to the other and said, "Hey, I know how you can get in with girl 1. You could spark up a conversation by asking her what girl 2 thinks about me." Obviously he was trying frame the message so that the point of the statement would have been the other friend's self-interests. He failed. It is very clear why he was saying that, and it was not for the other friend. The musician Kalai demonstrated in a concert that he doesn't care to use this code. He said(paraphrased), "You know, a lot of people, when they're breaking up with someone say, 'It's not you it's me.' When I went to break up with a girlfriend, I said, 'Hey, I found someone that I like more than you, and I'm going to go be with her.'" That's maybe a little harsh, but it illustrates the difference.
Finally, we'll go with a code we'll call "The Navigator." The navigator is when people try to turn the converasation towards or away from a certain point. People try this all the time, but it's super entertaining when they fail or make it too obvious. In it's worst form, this code can be blantantly changing a topic of conversation. It can also take the form of asking questions that you didn't realize would come right back to you, and that you didn't want to answer, or giving questions and comments that you know will lead to other questions and comments.
Everyone that reads this knows what I'm talking about and they're probably guilty of it. Maybe we can all realize that we're not really code talkers and leave that to the Native Americans. Again, in echo of Dostoyevsky, You are much more naive and simple-hearted that you suppose.

Ups and Downs of Love

I found out a few years after high school had ended, that a good friend of mine had me in her high school cell phone as "Grandpa Moon." I have over the years been compared to an old man; sometimes having earned it consciously and sometimes without having any idea where it came from. I don't mind it. I guess there is some old man in me already. Perhaps that's why I enjoyed the new Disney movie "Up" so much. It's about an old man.

I've already been laughed at for saying this, but I thought the love story in that movie was the best love story I have ever seen in a movie. It's at least in the top three. I had a mission companion who always used to sing the line, "the greatest adventure is what lies ahead." That is basically the theme of the movie. So, the moral of the story is that love is an adventure, and there's always some ahead. The old man takes his home up, and from the experience finds love.
Movie on from my movie review, I had another experience with love last weekend, only it was down instead of up. No, i didn't break up with someone, it really had to do with falling.
On Saturday, we were working outside the house, and my Dad needed some help felling a tree. So I went and pulled while he cut, since it was right by the house. The tree fell, and all was great, until we noticed the baby bird laying on the ground as if it were dead in the midst of the branches, and the nest from which it fell a foot or so away. At first I thought, "Oh, that's unfortunate." But then we saw that it was breathing. So I bent down and, with my gloves on, cradled it in my hands and put it back in the nest. When I picked it up, it instantly opened its mouth wide for a worm, and I my heart just melted.
I'm guessing it's what happens when a typical girl sees a baby, and they forget everything and gush over the baby, only I wasn't really gushing, and I didn't really forget anything, but my heart really melted. We nestled the nest into the tree that was right next to where the fallen one had stood and hoped that everything would be alright. Everything was alright until an hour or two later when we saw a grown robin on the porch railing with a worm in its mouth and obviously flustered because it couldn't find its nest and baby. Then my heart melted again, and I felt like a big nincompoop. So I ran and got the gloves again, and moved the nest onto the porch railing. Obviously the bird flew away because I'm a scary nincompoop person, and it just happened to fly right into the tree where I had put it. So after a two placements of trying to help, we put the nest back in the tree and hoped that the mom would find the baby. I don't know what happened. I didn't see the mom again, but I can't tell if she found the baby or not. I ripped it's home down. But, maybe the mom found the baby and they realized how much they meant to each other, and they lived happily ever after.
Whether your house gets ripped down, or floats up, "love will find a way" (Blessed Union of Souls).

Life Speed Limit: 60 MPH (miniutes per hour)

I was driving down Center Street in Provo the other day when I noticed two things: the speed limit was 15 MPH and a sign said that downtown Provo was "Historic." I guess Provo itself is about 160 years old, so we can call it historic. Downtown just looks like it's from the 70's so I'm not sure that qualifies, but whatever. The biggest parallel I saw between downtown provo and history was the slow speed. Almost no one goes 15 mph anywhere, unless it's construction or something. Back in the good ole' days, strolling took the place of speeding.
I have a hard time strolling. I'm getting better at it. I used to be really good at it. My mom would tell me to hurry up because she felt like she was walking by herself when we went places. I went on my mission and forgot how to walk slow. I'm getting better at it.
Before my mission, there was a day when I went with a friend to Savers to get him a couch for his apartment. I had something to do, or somewhere to be, and so I was kind of ancy. I remember very clearly how he sat on the couch he was thinking about and said, "relax Moon, you gotta reap it." I guess that what the younger generation does instead of smelling roses.
When you really think about it, people who are always in a hurry are just reving their metaphorical engines. Life happens at a fixed speed. C.S. Lewis said, "The future is something that everyone reaches at 60 minutes per hour, no matter who he is, no matter what he does." Just chillax. Go with the flow of traffic. If you try to go faster, you'll probably experience road rage or get impatient.

Comfort Food

What's with girls and comfort food?

I realize that such a question might be initially offensive and sexist, but then you start thinking about it and you realize that it's generally true. Girls grant great power to food. My only-boyhood, as well as other experiences with girls, has instructed me on the fact that ice cream and chocolate have the ability to make everything ok. President Obama should have allocated stimulus money to the production of chocolate ice cream. Besides those two universals, girls usually have a favorite dish that can have the same effect, such as mashed potatoes or certain salads. I guess I don't have much to comment on this phenomenon. I just know that it exists, and that I don't know how or why it works for them.

I do have something to say however about health. I have come to the conclusion that if America is obese or unhealthy, it's not only because we lack self-control and are lazy. It's partly because we're inconsiderate despite efforts to be kind and because we don't want to offend.

We give each other a ridiculous amount of junk food. Just the other day, my boss got mint brownies for each of us employees in celebration of a birthday. These brownies were a supplement to the cookies she constantly has for us to munch on. I didn't want a brownie. So I tried to walk out without one. I wasn't fast enough. She asked, "don't you want a brownie." I couldn't say no because she had gotten one specifically for me (without asking if I wanted one). So I took it, and thought about how I could get rid of it. I would think it was wierd if someone gave me a mysterious brownie, and I couldn't justify throwing it away, so I ate it and am now more unhealthy than I previously was. Stuff like that happens all the time.

The past two times I have gone out to eat with my family, my extremely healthy mother ended up eating cheese fries the first time and a shake the second time, all against her will.

When people are down we think, "I'll make them some cookies." We should think "If I hated them, I would make them cookies, because then they would be unhealthy and more prone to health problems. Since I don't hate them and I want to help them, I'll take them a fruit salad, or a healthy dinner, or something like that." We never think that. We give junk food to each other everytime we want to be nice. It's not nice. So, if you've read this post and you give me junk food, I'll just assume that you hate me. Perhaps, if you think I can at least get comfort from you chocolate inconsideration, remember that I'm a boy. I won't.

Grand

Last weekend I went to visit my Sister, Brother-in-law and niece. I had a great time.
While I was there, my brother-in-law told me that I might as well not even worry about having kids, since there is almost no hope of having kids that are as cute as his little girl.
My Grandpa Thomas sends me (and all of his other grandkids who have moved out) a quote each month. This months was something like "it is a great pleasure in life to do something people tell you you can't do." It's by some guy.
I went to Jordan's house the other day and started playing his piano, and I fell in love with it. It's a baby grand and it's a nice wood color, and sounds awesome.
Considering all of the foregoing, I resolved that things I want to have when I grow up are a baby that's grand, a grandbaby, and a baby grand.

Jordan

I've kind of strayed from my people commentaries, but I think everyone was just wondering when this post would happen. There is certainly something to be said of my friend and roommate Jordan.
My experience with Jordan can be traced back to high school. The extent of our relationship there was that we went to the same one, and knew who each other were. However, Jordan was too busy being smart, and I was too busy goofing off for our paths to cross much more.
By some wierd something, Jordan and I ended up in the same MTC district. We went to different missions, but were in the same district learning russian. Well, let me qualify that. I was learning, Jordan was having it infused into his brain without putting any effort into it. His companion had already taken russian in school and was far enough ahead that they sent him to a state side mission until the rest of us were ready to leave the MTC. The result was that Jordan was put into a threesome with me and my companion. Our relationship took shape at that point. It took the shape of banter and spite. These were not tools of contention as one might think. They were tools of survival. If you've never been in the MTC for 12 weeks you don't quite understand how the MTC makes your brain weird. Our teacher thought we hated each other, when, in reality, we were just going insane. It should be noted that my attempts to serve him went completely unappreciated (typed with my tongue in my cheek).
Jordan sent me a letter once when we were in the mission field in an attempt to keep in touch. I responded...18 months later. I was busy.
After our missions we made contact once or twice before we decided to be roommates in Provo. I have no idea how Jordan, an extremely red personality puts up with my blueness. He hates blues. Somehow we get along. Luckily, neither of us care enough to be upset about much.
Jordan's latest goal is to become bigger than I am. We all know that will never happen. Sorry Jordan. I've tried to explain it to him, but he starts mixing laughter and words like, "you're so stupid" and "I hate you." I even told him to look in his dictionary where the word huge includes in its definition the words, "see Shawn." Denial is a hard thing for him to overcome. Especially when all of his working out and fat shakes, and blah and blah and blah just don't seem to get him as big as me.
There's much more I could say, and many stories I could relate, but this is a good enough overview for now.

Swine Flu

So the world has been amuck in the swine flu as of late. At work, when I read the papers, there is mention of pigs all over the place. This has caused me to think of two things. The first is to ask what the difference is between an epidemic and a pandemic. The answer is that an epidemic just spreads quickly outside of it's regular locality. A pandemic is a worldwide epidemic.

The second thought I've had is how the swine flu is simple proof of my feeling that pigs are only good for bacon. My road to this conclusion came through the ownership of my own pig. When I was in high school, I walked into seminary one day, and my teacher, who was moving and knew that I worked at a ranch, asked if I wanted his pig. The only though that went through my adolescent head was, "it would be funny to say I have a pig." So I agreed to get it, and my mom and I went and picked it up. That was the beginning of an era of regret. We tried letting it co-habitate with the dogs. It intimidated the dogs to the degree that they just avoided it. So we gave it it's own place. It was mean to us. It got out a number of times (it's name was Sophie) and the only benefit I got from it was using it for funny things like dropping it (in a dog cage) on a friends doorstep as a birthday prank, and stuff like that. I think someone suggested that we set it loose in the woods and dress up like indians and hunt it with bows and arrows. We never did. Mostly, we just took it the left overs, and waited... The wait finally ended one day in the winter when I realized that Sophie wasn't moving. I took a stick and tried to get a reaction out of her, but to no avail. I walked into my house and said rather non-chalantly, "Mom, what do you do with a dead pig?" She responded equally apathetically, "I don't know. I'll call someone." And that was the end of Sophie, the pot-bellie pig--also know as the Shawn's folly. Pigs are good for nothing but bacon.

Sunshine on a cloudy day...

Here's an ode to awesome people who reflect sunshine and add a little topping to the daily dose of provincial vanilla.

Here's an ode to my sisters, Chantelle and Mackenzie, who came to my work and delivered a mint and cookies and said "We "mint" to tell you to not go "cookie" during finals. The best part was when I walked out of my building to meet them and they were standing in the parking lot with giddy smiles that could be seen from a mile away. The couldn't say it without laughing.

Here's an ode to Whitney, who left a boxful of lucky charms on my doorstep this morning so that I couldn't fail my finals. She sent me a text telling me to make sure that I went out my front door when I left. So, I went and checked my doorstep and there was nothing there. So I looked around the apartment, and I couldn't see anything. So, right when I was going to text her and congratulate her on a giant fake out, and noticed that one of my roommates had put them on the stairs. True to character, I didn't read the sign as I walked down the stairs.


Here's an ode to the old man that I saw on the side of the street who's sunshine came in the form of old manness. I didn't stop to talk, but I'm pretty sure his name was Walter, and he was the inventor of sliced bread. Despite what anyone says, we all know that there is still nothing better than sliced bread. Thanks Walter!

Help Me Persuade Jordan

This entry is for everyone who knows Jordan Crook to help me persuade him to do something that he doesn't want to do, but that would be so, so, so funny. I, and others, have decided that one of the funniest things that could happen at the ward variety show this Friday is for Jordan to get up and talk about himself. He's worried about this being egotistical and whatever. Please comment on this post and help me help him understand how funny this would be, and that he should actually do it.

what should Shawn blog about today?

**fyi: whitney wrote this, opinions come from people who walked into S3 the night of March 30th**

this is really ridiculous. people littering. it's really ridiculous. i mean, people just throw stuff on the ground as if their mom is going to come and pick it up. mom's won't follow you around picking stuff up.
- Katherine Nelson

don't blog about me. no really, talk about how Jordan is confused that Shawn buys shirts with buttons on the collar.
- Jordan Crook

um... aliens are going to attack. oh, wait, what's that book? "11,002 to be miserable about" oh just go to my neuropsychology class.
- Randy

"I am a lawyer from Nigeria. Your great-grandpa has died and left you all his chattles."
- Jeff W.

hmmm... his cool shirt. I love his shirt. "doesn't he look beautiful today?"---"phrases for high rollers sake."
- Amanda

"Katherine, do you know where the peeps from your apartment are?" "yes, they are probably dead, I don't know!"
- Katherine

aubrey comes in wearing bright gold spandex - enough said.

"excuses, excuses. start singing Shawn."
- Stephanie

"why are you wearing that? yeah, let's talk about obedience."
- Jordan and Jessica

"where there is a testimony obedience is never blind."
- some homecoming Tati went to

carolyn knocks on the door. "oh you guys are having fhe.." and she runs away.

I hope you know that you are spectacular,
and it's not just because of your scrabble vernacular.
- Whitney

Katie

Katie has waited very patiently for this post. When the idea of a post for her was thrown out, she expressed some desire to see it in the next couple of hours. Unfortunately, those hours turned into weeks. Sorry Katie.
I'm not going to lie. It's hard to write about Katie because she can be summed up in five short letters: BSNRN. The ratio of those letters to other words in a conversation with Katie is 1:2. I must say though, with such a high ratio, she does a fantastic job choosing her other words and letters so that you don't notice them too much.
Katie's schedule is a little unconventional. Like many nurses, she has to throw in her share of moonlit hours at the hospital. Occasionally, that schedule has been followed immediately by church or some other event that she goes to, and people consistently comment on her being "out of it." You would be too. By the way, if the thought crossed your mind, no, she doesn't have a hang over.
Katie has a knack for loving people. She has occasionally related stories of kids she has met at Primary Children's or on humanitarian trips that are touching, both in terms of the children's trials, and in terms of her apparent care for them.
In conclusion, Katie is straightforward. I didn't know that until I recently saw a film of her speed dating. Speed dating is an interesting enough concept to me, but Katie removed any question marks about her thoughts about it by wearing a wedding veil. Awesome... awesome.

The Butterfly

I know that I've told one of you that your post would be next. Sorry. It will be after this. I had to post this story. I know this butterfly...
There was once a butterfly who wished for a bride, and, as may be supposed, he wanted to choose a very pretty one from among the flowers. He glanced, with a very critical eye, at all the flower-beds, and found that the flowers were seated quietly and demurely on their stalks, just as maidens should sit before they are engaged; but there was a great number of them, and it appeared as if his search would become very wearisome. The butterfly did not like to take too much trouble, so he flew off on a visit to the daisies. The French call this flower “Marguerite,” and they say that the little daisy can prophesy. Lovers pluck off the leaves, and as they pluck each leaf, they ask a question about their lovers; thus: “Does he or she love me?—Ardently? Distractedly? Very much? A little? Not at all?” and so on. Every one speaks these words in his own language. The butterfly came also to Marguerite to inquire, but he did not pluck off her leaves; he pressed a kiss on each of them, for he thought there was always more to be done by kindness.
“Darling Marguerite daisy,” he said to her, “you are the wisest woman of all the flowers. Pray tell me which of the flowers I shall choose for my wife. Which will be my bride? When I know, I will fly directly to her, and propose.”
But Marguerite did not answer him; she was offended that he should call her a woman when she was only a girl; and there is a great difference. He asked her a second time, and then a third; but she remained dumb, and answered not a word. Then he would wait no longer, but flew away, to commence his wooing at once. It was in the early spring, when the crocus and the snowdrop were in full bloom.
“They are very pretty,” thought the butterfly; “charming little lasses; but they are rather formal.”
Then, as the young lads often do, he looked out for the elder girls. He next flew to the anemones; these were rather sour to his taste. The violet, a little too sentimental. The lime-blossoms, too small, and besides, there was such a large family of them. The apple-blossoms, though they looked like roses, bloomed to-day, but might fall off to-morrow, with the first wind that blew; and he thought that a marriage with one of them might last too short a time. The pea-blossom pleased him most of all; she was white and red, graceful and slender, and belonged to those domestic maidens who have a pretty appearance, and can yet be useful in the kitchen. He was just about to make her an offer, when, close by the maiden, he saw a pod, with a withered flower hanging at the end.
“Who is that?” he asked.
“That is my sister,” replied the pea-blossom.
“Oh, indeed; and you will be like her some day,” said he; and he flew away directly, for he felt quite shocked.
A honeysuckle hung forth from the hedge, in full bloom; but there were so many girls like her, with long faces and sallow complexions. No; he did not like her. But which one did he like?
Spring went by, and summer drew towards its close; autumn came; but he had not decided. The flowers now appeared in their most gorgeous robes, but all in vain; they had not the fresh, fragrant air of youth. For the heart asks for fragrance, even when it is no longer young; and there is very little of that to be found in the dahlias or the dry chrysanthemums; therefore the butterfly turned to the mint on the ground. You know, this plant has no blossom; but it is sweetness all over,—full of fragrance from head to foot, with the scent of a flower in every leaf.
“I will take her,” said the butterfly; and he made her an offer. But the mint stood silent and stiff, as she listened to him. At last she said,—
“Friendship, if you please; nothing more. I am old, and you are old, but we may live for each other just the same; as to marrying—no; don’t let us appear ridiculous at our age.”
And so it happened that the butterfly got no wife at all. He had been too long choosing, which is always a bad plan. And the butterfly became what is called an old bachelor.
It was late in the autumn, with rainy and cloudy weather. The cold wind blew over the bowed backs of the willows, so that they creaked again. It was not the weather for flying about in summer clothes; but fortunately the butterfly was not out in it. He had got a shelter by chance. It was in a room heated by a stove, and as warm as summer. He could exist here, he said, well enough.
“But it is not enough merely to exist,” said he, “I need freedom, sunshine, and a little flower for a companion.”
Then he flew against the window-pane, and was seen and admired by those in the room, who caught him, and stuck him on a pin, in a box of curiosities. They could not do more for him.
“Now I am perched on a stalk, like the flowers,” said the butterfly. “It is not very pleasant, certainly; I should imagine it is something like being married; for here I am stuck fast.” And with this thought he consoled himself a little.
“That seems very poor consolation,” said one of the plants in the room, that grew in a pot.
“Ah,” thought the butterfly, “one can’t very well trust these plants in pots; they have too much to do with mankind.”
-By Hans Christian Andersen

Sara Beth

Thanks to Sara Beth, I didn't have to decide who to spotlight this week. You should all appreciate her willingness to take the hit this week, which resulted in one of you being spared.

Sara Beth is famous. She never told me about it, but apparently, she has an awesome relationship with the band Rascal Flatts. So much so, that they wrote a song about her. Unfortunately, her chance at fame through a hit song got messed up when the band confused her with someone who had cancer. Thankfully, the real Sara Beth doesn't have to worry much about cancer. The extent of her health problems is confined to cumbersome boots and defects in the way she eats her salads. If you happened to see her with a handicapped pass... it used to be legit.
Sara Beth is Arizonian. For those of you who don't know what that means, it's a mix between the words "arid" and "zoni"--two ancient indian tribes who settled in the southwest and have caucasian looking posterity. Thus, if I didn't just tell you that, there's no way you would have known.
One of Sara Beth's great talents is what I call "the familial chameleon." That is to say that Sara Beth can fit in with multiple groups so well, that they actually treat her like one of the clan. Besides her school kids calling her mom, her friends' families are so fond of her that, if you didn't know the situation, you might think she was adopted (she fits in, but she doesn't change appearances. That's would be a little ridiculous.)
So, in summary, Sara Beth is an adaptive indian of reasonably good health.

Veda

After web logging (blogging) about Katherine, I felt it was only fitting to follow up with Veda. Veda is an alien, and she is, by far, my favorite alien. The fact that she has lots of family around might throw you off, but when I saw her exposed to her kind, I knew the truth. You're probably a little bit confused; let me explain. Back To The Future is a great movie. We were watching that movie one time, and it got to the part where Darth Vader (from the planet Vulcan) showed up to get George McFly to ask Lorraine to the dance. Seeing the pure glee she gleaned from that scene made the truth apparent. Ever since then, she's been more open about it. If you ask her about this, she'll probably tell you that I'm an alien too. I'll leave that up to you.
I'm glad that Veda is an alien though. If all aliens are as good of friends to everyone as she is, I say we recruit more of them.

Little Red Katherine (in the) Hood

I'm sure you've heard the story of Little Red Riding Hood. If I spelled that wrong, I'm sorry. The tellers of stories in my childhood didn't pronunciate well enough for me to know if it was "Writing Hood" or "Riding Hood." But listen, I know Little Red _______ Hood. She now goes by the name Katherine Nelson, and she rocks. Not rocks as in rocks out to hard music, but rocks in the sense that life is a metaphorical concert and she is, metaphorically, Bon Jovi. Red _______ Hood and Bon Jovi in the same blog. My blog is like a box of chocolates....
So, did you ever wonder where Little Red Katherine Hood found the wolf impersonating her grandmother? Washington. The story is a little twisted though. When she found the impersonator she immediately realized that the wolf wasn't her grandmother. Duh. Wolves can't disguise themselves well enough to look like grandmas. But, because Katherine thought the situation was a little ridiculous, maybe even humorous, she decided she'd play along. Unfortunately the wolf couldn't keep up with her wit, so it ended up giving really lame answers about eating Katherine. As soon as those started coming out, Katherine got a sassy look on her face (remember she was still a little girl) and told the wolf what's up. The wolf realized how pathetic it had been and how much cooler Katherine was, and it moped out the door. Katherine waited in the house for a while until her real grandma came back from the village and they had tea and crumpets.

...Giiirrrrllll...

Abby Hartman

The other day, I was in a church meeting, and I happened to be sitting next to Abby. By chance my eyes caught hold of her hands and I was shocked. She has the skinniest fingers I've ever seen. Maybe some babies have skinnier hands, but factor in the length, and she might even have them beat. When I brought up the skinniness, she smiled and proudly told me they were her princess hands. She's going to be a hand model one day. She will be an awesome hand model too. For once, you'll be able to recognize the owner of the hand. (the picture is her looking with amazement at how awesome her hands are).
After thinking for a minute, I decided that Abby is an undercover princess. She's obviously not from America because America doesn't have princesses; plus, her British accent, which she occasionally lets slip, is way too good. If you're wondering about the undercover part, hold on. I'm getting there.
One time, a long, last semester ago, Abby told me that she was a hippie. That's the undercover part. But she's really good at faking you out. The way she hula hoops throws you (and every part of her body) for an extra loop that you totally weren't expecting. The result is that you have no idea whether she's a British princess, a hippie or a... I don't even know.
Perhaps a look at her background will shed a little light on the masterpiece that is Abby.
Abby claims she is from the northern part of the middle part of the midwest. Her family has Harry Potter Halloween parties, and Harry Potter is British, so it's a dead give away. I'm saying she's an undercover British princess.

New Series

This is the beginning of a new series on my blog in which I will be giving biographical sketches about people. Stay tuned; you might be next.

Jeff Willenbrecht:

Jeff grew up in the 'hood. Some people call him the Fresh Prince of Yorba-Linda because when he was five years old, he ran away and spent two weeks on the street mastering the street life. Upon returning, he soon learned how to reconcile his two contrasting life-styles and has since become the hard-core good guy that we all know today. When he was ten, he met the first love of his life: Jane Fennemore Cooper; maybe you've heard of her. Things didn't work out, and Jane left for England where she gained residence and became a famous author. Later, on a book-signing excursion in the congo, her plane crashed and she ended up marrying a caucasian man who thought he was a gorilla. He wasn't a gorilla.
Other brushes with fame include when he met the famous "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire" host Regis. They hung out for a couple days in Denver, Colorado.
Jeff's favorite food is Spam. You'll have to ask him about it. But be careful, if he gets started on Spam, it's hard to stop him.
His ancestry includes someone from Mexico. That's the only way I know how to explain his ridiculously good accent.
Jeff's favorite past time is curling. Not hurling. Curling.
I think that's it for Jeff. Let's give him a round of applause.

A Shout Out to the Old-Timers

Last Monday, we had a themed FHE: Party like you're 99. While some of the people there were a little too good at being "in character," we all enjoyed the "sit and be fit" exercize routine, and the elementary school style bingo.
That experience didn't prompt this blog, but it was the first thought to old-timers that I had this week.
What did prompt this blog was the essay I read for my english class about the author's grandpa. I like the type of old-timer he described: a hard-working, no-nonsense, work-until-you-die-cause-the-work's-never-done-on-a-ranch type of old-timer. In fact, I think I have a little of that in me.

My great grandpa, Nephi Moon, was a farmer in Duschene county, and reportedly was the type of man I'm talking about. Characteristic of his breed of human, he could let a word or two slip, but was more honorable than most men you'd meet today. Perhaps that's one reason I like those guys so much. They could look anybody or anything in the eye because there was nothing to be scared of. Their "don't squat with your spurs on" type of common sense is a treasure lost to most intellectuals and urbanites. Their perserverance mixed perfectly with their practicality to make a man--someone to be looked up to.
But, I never knew my great grandpa, I know Bob Mendenhall. Bob was the one that taught me such truisms as "there's no fertilizer like the footprints of the owner." That's how he lived too. Artists have paintings, composers have music, and sometimes one of them will create a masterpiece. Bob has his ranch; that's his masterpiece. He has walked everyfoot of that ground hundreds of times over, and he's changed people's lives in the process. The effect of these men on young people is, to me, the greatest effect of their work. Between his kids and his employees, Bob has turned out a pretty good crop of people who know what it's like to work. And, if it didn't kill them, maybe they'll be tough enough to pass on some sense to future generations.

Speech Digression

My apartment is heavily painted with invisible reds and skyblues. The result is somewhat different than the sky when it turns from day to sunset. That's at least progression. The result is the opposite. It's digression. Each day is like the movie Groundhog Day. It's as predictable as the last time you lived it.
The number of colors in the apartment reflects the number of topics that exist in apartment converstaions. Both topics of conversation utilize x's and o's. One topic discusses how teams score points, the other discusses how individuals score points. It's a game of tactics in which doing nothing is a tactic, and playing too hard is losing. But, loss is never admitted. Strangely, victory is either missing or mocked. However, mocking must abide one rule: you have to say the same thing every time. No new material is allowed for mocking.
Experience's classroom teaches that, in the land of opinions and self-proclaimed geniuses, there is only enough room for silence and the assurity and there is still nothing valuable being said.

The Story of the Box Boy

Once upon a life, a young boy lived with his parents. He loved life with them and life at home almost seemed heavenly. Unfortunately the king of the land was amazingly large, so large in fact, that he literally could have the whole kingdom under his thumb. In contrast to his size, the king had an unusually small sense of self-esteem. He didn't think anybody liked him. He was right. To compensate for his sense of unpopularity, the king tried to involve himself in everybody's lives, with the thought that it would cause them to like him. That was the bane of the young boy's childhood.
The way the large king involved himself in everyone's lives, was he required a tax. The tax was related to the box service. Every child, when they were old enough to understand what was happening, was required to be put into a box for 6 hours a day, nine months a year. Since the boxes cost money, the subjects were required to pay for the boxes. The young boy's parents consented obediently. Oh, how the boy hated curling up into the box everyday.
Years passed under this system of taxation and government unpopularity. The king died and another king took his place. The new king changed all the laws because he was from a different party than the old king. Under the new king, the box system was only required up to a certain age. The boy shouted for joy at his immenent freedom! The first thing he did was run around town shouting for joy. When he got tired, he realized that he would need a job, since his parents had removed him from their insurance. He started job hunting, but soon realized that his newfound freedom turned off most employers. The boy realized that everyone that had jobs, had learned how to function in life, with their boxes on! Grudgingly, we went home, curled up into his box, and, to this day, he works to function with his box, hoping that someone doesn't accidently ship him off.

Paul Newman's Legacy

For ages, mankind has desired immortality. People have always tried to figure out how to live beyond death, either metaphorically through legacy, or literally by some other means. Paul Newman figured it out. There is no better way to secure your legacy than creating a salad dressing line and posting a drawing of your head on each and every bottle. I am a perfect example of the perpetuating life of this bygone actor. I had no idea who Paul Newman was until one revelatory dinner in which this man's mug prompted a dinner conversation that filled me in on his celebrityship. Now Paul lives on through me.
So maybe it doesn't have to be a salad dressing line, but think about it. People sho would otherwise have been "gone with the wind," have lived on by gracing future generations with their faces. Artists, for example, understand this concept, and, as a result, often paint their faces into their pictures; despite the fact that they often have no reason to be in the context of the painting. Michaelangelo was perhaps the most creative at this. He immortalized himself in one of his paintings by painting himself as just hollow skin. Gross. The warped thinking of artists is a subject for another day.
One last example is the Incan king who had himself carved into the side of a mountain at Ollantaytambo, Peru. No one today really cares more that he lived as opposed to anyone else, but there he his. Immortalized by his face.
With the increasingly easy creation of media, we are going to have to get more creative at leaving our faces behind. Paul Newman got salad dressing. I call hot air balloons...

Sometimes Your Saddle Just Falls Off

As many of you probably already know, I was able to spend Christmas break in Peru. One of the things we did was stay in a little town called Patabamba, which is a small village in the Andes mountains outside of Cusco. The villagers there are trying to establish some sort of tourism industry to support or grow their economy; so, part of our service was being tourists. The first experience there was a horse ride. They called them horses, I was less sure as to what they were. Generally horses are big enough to carry people; I had serious doubts about these mangy mounts. Luckily, I was proved wrong about their strength. My horse was kind of a fireball (most horses I ride are, it's kind of a curse I've had since I started breaking horses)but I tried to not handle it too much and just it go with the other horses. Things were going well for a while; the horse and I reached an agreement (I would act like a bag of sand, and the horse would follow the other horses) and got along reasonably well. That was the situation when the horse turned up hill but something on the "saddle" (it wasn't what you generally think of when I say that word) came undone, and the saddle and I came tumbling down. That spooked the horse, and it started bucking. Luckily, the short fall (short horse) didn't land me on any of the numerous surrounding rocks. I mostly felt bad for the guide who is trying to do something good and work to improve his circumstances. I tried to let him know that it wasn't a big deal, but the whole situation kind of got me thinking. Sometimes we have to ride stupid horses, but generally you can deal with it, and if it tries to get you off, it's rare that you can't stay on. Sometimes we make stupid mistakes as riders - hopefully we're improving. But sometimes, your saddle just comes off. It's not anyone's fault. It may be bitter, but don't we have inexplicable moments of sweet? Granted, sweetness is always His fault. So, the next time your saddle comes off, pick yourself up, get back on your horse, tie the saddle on tighter and get back to enjoying the scenery.